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“One  of  the  Least ” 


Astrid  Awes 


Lutheran  Board  of  {Missions 
{Minneapolis,  {Minn. 
'92S 


o 


o 


Ragna  Dahle 


O 


o 


Dedicated  to  all  who 
have  given  sons  and  daughters  to  the 
mission  field 


I  have  not  prepared  this  little  pamphlet  on  the  life  of 
Ragna  Dahle  because  she  deserved  a  booklet  more  than 
any  other  missionary,  for  as  far  as  deserving  is  concerned, 
there  are  assuredly  many  others  far  more  deserving  than 
she.  Nor  have  I  written  about  her  because  she  was  great 
in  any  way;  she  is  perhaps  reckoned  among  the  ‘least 
of  these.”  But  I  have  written  as  I  did  because  as  her 
sister,  one  year  her  senior,  and  as  her  inseparable  com¬ 
panion  for  years,  ,1  know  her  better  than  I  know  the  other 
heroes  who  laid  down  their  lives  for  the  heathen.  More¬ 
over  I  have  chosen  her  life  because  it  seems  to  me  typical 
of  the  aspirations,  the  struggles,  and  the  joys  of  most 
young  people  who  follow  Christ.  It  is  with  reluctance 
that  I  quote  from  her  daybooks,  as  I  frequently  do,  be¬ 
cause  she  considered  her  books  so  personal  that  no  one 
but  herself  saw  them  until  after  her  death.  She  began 
them  at  the  age  of  twelve  and  wrote  steadily  in  them 
until  within  a  week  of  her  death.  I  have  tried,  therefore, 
to  select  from  her  life  as  I  remember  it  and  from  her  day¬ 
books  only  that  which  many  of  us  have  in  common,  and 
that  which  finally  made  her  a  missionary. 

For  the  progress  of  missions, 


ASTRID  AWES. 


“ One  of  the  Least  ” 


am  happy  because  I  am  at  last  in  the  place  I 
have  longed  for  all  my  life.  I  am  so  contented 
that  I  feel  as  though  I  am  made  for  this  place.  I 
hope  I  shall  not  prove  a  failure.  Strange  to  say,  I 
was  born  the  year  this  station  was  begun ;  so  we  were 
saving  the  other  day  that  I  was  born  for  the  place.” 
Thus  wrote  Ragna  Dahle  in  her  private  daybook  dur¬ 
ing  her  first  week  in  Madagascar. 

It  is  true  that  she  was  born  the  year  the  station 
at  Manasoa  was  started.  On  July  23,  1890,  in  the  city 
of  Duluth,  Ragna  Dahle  was  born.  And  while  Mr. 
Ton  and  his  young  wife  were  struggling  with  tropical 
heat,  malaria  fever,  and  native  robbers  in  Madagascar, 
tittle  Ragna  was  trying  to  earn  for  herself  a  welcome 
from  her  sister  one  year  her  senior  and  her  brother 
two  and  a  half  years  older.  She  cried  her  bitter,  baby 
tears  over  the  reception  her  sister  gave  her,  for  it  was 
only  a  slap — a  good  resounding  slap  at  the  newcomer 
who  had  monopolized  mother — and  brother  cared  very 
little  whether  she  remained  or  not. 

Visitors,  of  whom  the  manse  always  had  a  goodly 
number,  tell  that  few  of  them  could  long  remain  chilly 
toward  the  plump  baby  girl  who  cooed  and  laughed 
all  day  long.  It  was  said  of  Ragna  by  many  that  she 
had  the  missionary  spirit  from  the  very  first  in  that 
she  was  never  of  a  peevish  or  whining  disposition. 
As  she  approached  the  age  of  four,  her  mother’s  wise 


6 


regulations  confining  her  to  the  green  lawn  about  the 
house  were  extremely  hard  to  obey  for  a  frolicking,  ac¬ 
tive  child.  She  wanted  to  play  in  the  street  where  she 
could  see  scores  of  wagons  and  people  pass  by.  Al¬ 
though  rules  hampering  her  play  were  exasperating, 
still  worse  was  opposition  to  her  young  opinions.  Pos¬ 
sessing  an  exceptionally  independent  mind,  she  was 
frequently  having  disputes  with  all  who  cared  to  cross 
swords  with  her,  and  not  in  the  least  with  her  father, 
who  nicknamed  his  young  daughter  “Papa’s  little 
Protestant”— a  name  of  which  she  was  justly  proud. 

When  her  brother  and  her  sister  went  to  Sunday 
School,  she  insisted  on  going  too,  although  she  was 
only  four  years  old.  She  begged  a  book  from  her 
father  to  take  with  her,  and  one  day  mother  was  great¬ 
ly  surprised  to  find  that  her  baby  could  read — she 
had  learned  in  Sunday  School  by  watching  the  other 
children,  and  thus  it  happened  that  at  the  age  of  four, 
little  Ragna  read  the  Bible.  She  had  begun  the  read¬ 
ing  of  a  book  which  for  the  length  of  her  young  life 
was  her  constant  companion. 

She  was  greatly  hurt  when  her  brother  of  six  and 
her  sister  of  five  began  to  attend  the  public  school 
and  she  was  not  allowed  to  go  too.  When  told  that 
she  was  too  young,  she  persisted  with  great  emphasis. 
“But  I  am  four  years  old,  papa,  I  am  four  years  old.” 
Schooling  in  the  city,  however,  became  still  farther 
outside  Ragna’s  reach  during  the  space  of  the  next 
few  years  when  her  father’s  ill  health  compelled  him 
to  leave  the  city.  Out  on  a  northern  Minnesota  home¬ 
stead  among-  the  evergreen  pines,  with  mother,  Nature, 
and  God  as  teachers,  little  Ragna  with  her  many 
brothers  and  sisters  grew  up.  Those  years  in  the 
beautiful  out-of-doors  were  wonderful  indeed  and 


7 


made  a  sweet  background  of  tender  memories  for  the 
rest  of  her  life.  That  she  could  never  forget  the 
loveliness  of  these  £arly  days  is  shown  in  an  extract 
from  her  daybook  written  at  Manasoa,  Madagascar, 
six  months  before  she  died :  “A  beautiful  Sunday 
morning!  The  sun  is  shining  brightly  and  the  air  is 
cool.  Far  below  us  we  see  the  mist  rising  from  the 
river.  1  have  been  playing  “Landstad’s  Sa liner,”  the 
airs  of  which  ever  take  my  memory  back  to  old  Furuly 
where  mother  in  the  summer  time  used  to'  have  devo¬ 
tion  with  us  every  Sunday  morning  under  the  pines. 
Beautiful,  beautiful  memory.” 

Vet  the  early  years,  when  Ragna  did  not  have  op¬ 
portunity  to  go  to  school  before  the  age  of  eight,  were 
not  wasted,  for  her  mother  knew  how  to  fill  in  the 
time  with  many  useful  occupations.  The  children 
studied  books,  papers,  and  articles  from  their  father’s 
library,  and  their  mother  taught  them  arithmetic  and 
history.  She  read  them  stories  and  adventures ;  she 
studied  with  them  the  Bible  and  the  catechism ;  she 
gave  them  instruction  in  the  rudiments  of  music  so 
that  every  evening  the  old  home  rang  with  the  music 
of  the  family  singing.  Many  ardent  discussions  did 
the  children  have  about  Alexander  the  Great  and  his 
Bucephelus ;  Martin  Luther  and  the  Reformation ; 
Flarold  Haarfager  in  Norway;  Gauge  Rolfe  in  Nor¬ 
mandy,  and  other  noted  mythological  or  historical 
figures.  In  the  happy  summer  months  the  children 
practised  boating  and  swimming  and  picnicing.  Every 
autumn  they  skimmed  over  the  glassy  ice  on  skates, 
inhaling  health  and  love  of  freedom  with  every  breath 
of  untainted  forest  air.  No  cramped  skating  rink  with 
city  regulations  here ;  and  no  atmosphere  filled  with 
tobacco  smoke  and  swearing. 


8 


It  was  natural  under  conditions  like  these  that 
their  mother  should  become  the  idol  of  the  home ;  she 
was  the  queen  of  the  family.  Ragna ’s  daybook  is 
filled  with  affectionate  thoughts  on  her  mother.  It 
was  mother  who  tried  to  make  a  lady  out  of  her  lively, 
nature-loving  girl,  so1  that  in  spite  of  a  free  life  Ragna 
might  become  all  that  a  woman  ought  to’  be.  Hence 
after  frequent  trips  to  the  blueberry  hill,  to  the  swamp 
where  the  iris  and  cattails  grew,  to  the  hiding  places 
of  the  fragrant  pine  cones,— after  these  escapades 
came  patient  moments  spent  in  learning  how  to  darn 
torn  stockings,  how  to  mend  rips  in  dresses,  and  polish 
muddy  shoes.  Their  mother  found  time  to  watch  over 
table  manners  and  to'  speak  about  church  behavior. 
She  taught  them  about  the  God  in  whom  she  herself 
trusted  fully,  and  she  knew  how  to'  make  the  devo¬ 
tional  hours  interesting,  for  not  one  of  all  her  nine 
children  ever  complained  that  these  gatherings  were 
tiresome.  The  quiet  evenings  in  the  cosy  pine-sheltered 
home  with  their  stories,  singing,'  ethical  discussions, 
and  prayers  were  ever  sweet  in  the  merry  girl’s 
memory. 

When  a  teacher  was  finally  secured  for  the  district, 
the  children  during  the  winter  months  studied  in  the 
little,  brown  school.  Ragna  finished  the  grades  with 
high  marks.  She  was  always  at  the  head  of  her  classes 
and  could  spell  down  the  biggest  boys  and  girls  of  her 
district.  Among  her  playmates  in  school  she  was  a 
general  favorite  because  of  her  sunny  temper,  initia¬ 
tive,  and  skill  in  games  of  all  sorts.  When  she  was 
not  playing  darebase  with  the  boys  or  housekeeping 
with  the  girls,  she  was  guessing  or  giving  puzzles.  She 
found  much  delight  in  writing  poems  about  her  com¬ 
panions  :  at  one  time  especially  did  she  throw  her  whole 


9 


soul  into  a  poem  in  hopes  of  reforming  a  naughty 
Frank  by  persuading  the  girls  to  sing  it  to  him  until 
he  promised  to  be  better.  Frank’s  sin  lay  in  intruding 
whenever  the  girls  wanted  to  play  house. 

She  was  such  an  expert  in  argumentation  that  few 
of  the  other  children  could  hold  their  own  against 
her.  Her  keen,  witty  sallies  silenced  her  little  oppon¬ 
ents.  When,  however,  her  mother  made  her  realize 
that  it  was  not  kind  always  to  win,  nor  good  for  one¬ 
self  to  be  always  on  top,  she  tried  bravely  to  curb  her¬ 
self.  One  evening  as  she  returned  from  school,  she 
confided  to  her  mother,  “I  tell  you,  mother,  that  I 
could  have  given  Charlie  a  cutting  answer  today  when 
he  teased  me ;  I  had  the  answer  burning  on  the  tip 
of  my  tongue,  and  had  I  spit  it  out,  it  would  have 
cowed  him  for  hours.  But  I  remembered  that  you 
said  that  if  I  did  not  begin  to>  restrain  myself  now, 
I  should  never  be  master  of  myself.  I  want  to  be 
master  of  my  tongue,  but  oh,  it  is  hard.  Charlie  made 
it  harder  by  saying,  ‘You  keep  still  because  you  have 
not  a  word  to  say.’  ”  Her  desire  to  control  her  quick 
temper  caused  her  much  concern  as  she  advanced  in 
her  Christian  life.  Her  daybooks  frequently  mention 
remorse  over  some  unguarded  flash  of  temper.  And 
yet,  I  often  felt  later  that  she  gave  all  the  benefit  to 
others  at  the  expense  oh  herself.  Such  an  attitude 
was  frequently  evident  in  Madagascar  where  she  had 
charge  of  the  native  teachers  who  repeatedly  made 
life  hard  for  her  by  their  defiant  or  supercillious  airs. 
One  day  after  she  had  patiently  tried  to  point  out  to 
one  of  them  a  flagrant  pedagogical  fault  and  met  only 
exasperating  obstinacy,  I  asked  indignantly,  “Why 
don’t  you  tell  him  that  lie  is  a  rude,  ignorant  Malagasy 
who  needs  to  be  taught  much?’’ 


10 


“Oh,  no,”  she  replied,  “I  cannot  do  that  to  a  man 
who1  does  not  know  any  better.  If  he  had  had  our 
opportunities,  he  would  have  been  different.  Besides 
that  is  not  the  way  God  treats  us.” 

The  happy  years  of  childhood  on  the  beautiful 
homestead  came  to  an  end  at  last.  Ragna  finished  the 
grades  with  credit.  Soon  after  her  confirmation  she 
prepared  to  leave  home  in  order  to  attend  the  Aitkin 
High  School.  To  go  away  to  school,  however,  is  no 
easy  task  when  there  are  several  children  wanting  to 
go  and  no  money.  Since  Ragna  was  too  young  to 
teach,  it  was  decided  that  she  gO'  to  school  while  the 
two  older  ones  tried  to  earn  the  money  needed  to 
keep  her  there.  Mother  too  did  her  share  bv  selling 
cream,  eggs,  and  whatever  else  the  little  homestead 
could  spare.  Ragna,  carrying  extra  studies  during  the 
time  she  spent  in  Aitkin,  finished  High  School  in  three 
years  and  was  graduated  as  valedictorian  out  of  a 
class  of  twelve,  with  scholarships  from  three  standard 
colleges,  and  with  nineteen  credits  finished  in  place  of 
the  required  sixteen. 

While  studying  she  was  harrassed  by  the  thought 
that  she  might  have  to-  leave  school  before  graduation, 
and  wrote  in  her  daybook :  “Oh,  but  I  love  school. 
What  if  I  should  have  to  stay  out  next  year,  that 
would  be  dreadful,  for  my  class  would  get  ahead  of 
me.  I  know  I  am  terribly  selfish,  for  brother  and 
sister,  both  older  than  I,  are  making  their  own  way 
and  helping  me  too.  I  have  it  easy  in  comparison  to 
them;  I  know  they  are  just  longing  for  school  them¬ 
selves  ;  and  Mother  and  Father  who  are  making  every 
effort  to  see  that  we  all  get  enough  never  complain 
although  I  know  they  are  hard  up.  In  spite  of  her 
pretended  bravery,  however,  mother  looks  discour- 


11 


aged,  while  father  seems  tired  and  sad.  Pioneering 
is  hard  work  for  a  minister  of  his  age ;  he  is  not 
young  any  longer.  Mother  has  not  bought  one  new 
yard  of  cloth  this  year ;  she  has  patched  the  old,  and 
talks  of  getting  me  a  new  dress,  for  she  says  I  need 
one.  But  I  shall  try  to  dissuade  her  from  buying,  and 
make  my  old  dress  do  although  it  is  getting  short  in 
the  sleeves,  for  I  am  growing.” 

As  a  high  school  girl  in  a  reminiscent  mood  she 
wrote:  “How  different  are  my  school  days  now  from 
what  they  used  to  be  when  I  was  a  child.  Now  I 
make  good  use  of  my  time  because  I  realize  the  im¬ 
portance  of  a  good  education.  Now  I  have  the  sense 
not  to  irritate  my  teachers,  for  I  know  how  hard  it 
is  to-  be  a  teacher  in  a  school  of  this  size.  Out  in  the 
country  I  went  to  school  just  to  have  fun,  and  I  cer¬ 
tainly  had  it  too.  I  studied  my  lessons  enough  to 
slide  through  them  when  recitation  time  came  around ; 
the  rest  of  my  study  periods  I  spent  reading  stories, 
writing  letters,  playing  puzzles  with  someone,  or  I 
told  funny  things  to  my  seat-mate  until  we  two  nearly 
died  from  suppressed  laughter.  I  went  to  school 
mainly  to  play  at  recess.  I  quarreled  with  the  other 
girls  (only  those  I  did  not  like)  and  T  usually  had  the 
last  word.  Moreover  [  generally  succeeded  in  en¬ 
tangling  them  so  that  they  did  not  know  what  to  an¬ 
swer  ;  then  I  had  a  good  laugh  at  their  expense.  Dear, 
dear,  1  was  naughty,  that  is  true ;  but  now  when  I 
long  for  that  time  to  return,  it  has  vanished  like  a 
dream.” 

Pike  most  young  people  she  had  dreams  of  some 
day  being  great.  She  confided  to  her  mother  that  of 
all  professions  there  was  none  that  appealed  to  her 
more  than  that  of  law.  To  be  a  lawyer  seemed  to  her 


12 


the  acme  of  attainment.  Arguing,  debating,  or  dis¬ 
puting  was  almost  a  passion  with  her.  It  was  ap- 
proximately  at  this  time  that  she  first  began  really 
to  feel  a  call  to  go  to  the  mission  field,  and  her  battles 
with  herself  on  this  qustion  are  well  illustrated  by  a 
few  excerpts  from  her  daybook:  “I  am  thinking  a 
lot  about  what  I  want  to  become,  for  I  want  to  be 
something  great.  As  I  look  into1  the  future,  I  see 
myself  as  a  teacher  in  a  college  where  I  instruct  in 
mathematics  or  Latin ;  at  other  times  I  feel  I  should 
like  nothing  better  than  to  be  a  lawyer.  But  I  am 
afraid  that  such  thoughts  as  these  are  carnal,  for  ever 
since  I  was  confirmed,  I  have  felt  a  call  to  become  a 
missionary.  Still,  if  I  become  a  missionary,  I  shall 
never  be  great — great  in  the  eyes  of  God  maybe,  but 

. I  know  God  needs  workers  out  in  the  distant 

heathen  lands,  I  know  too  that  because  of  lack  of 
workers  many  natives  die  without  having  heard  a 
word  about  Him  at  all.  I  have  not  told  these  thoughts 
of  mine  to1  anyone  yet,  for  I  have  not  actually  deckled 
to  go.  I  do  not  think  I  am  a  fit  tool  for  the  mission 
work  because  I  am  not  a  good  Christian.  Still,  if 
God  has  chosen  me  for  this  work,  He  can  make  me 
what  I  ought  to  be.  I  pray  daily  that  He  will  strength¬ 
en  me  to  decide  right.  When  I  stop  to  consider  how 
badly  the  cause  needs  workers ;  then  I  am  willing  to 
go,  but  on  the  other  hand  when  I  think  of  the  terrible 
struggle  of  giving  up  friends,  home,  school,  country, 
and  all  the  work  that  I  love  best  to  do,  to  go  to'  a 
strange  country  among  a  strange  people,  I  feel  as 
though  I  can  never  do  it.  But  why  am  I  writing  thus  ? 
Wild  fancies  !  I  have  not  yet  decided  to  go  ;  the  future 
is  still  bright.” 


13 


A  few  clays  after  writing  this  paragraph  she  met 
Rev.  Jerstad,  a  Lutheran  missionary  from  Madagascar. 
The  personality  of  the  man  was  so  strong  and  devout 
that  few  people  who  ever  met  him  could  forget  him; 
the  whole  being  of  the  man  seemed  permeated  with 
God.  Her  daybook  comments  on  the  event:  “I  have 
met  Missionary  Jerstad.  What  a  man  of  God  he  is! 
He  spoke  so  much  about  the  heathen  that  my  desire 
to-  go  to  the  foreign  field  was  strengthened.  He  asked 
me  what  I  wanted  to  become  when  I  grew  up ;  but  I 
was  silent,  for  I  could  not  tell  him  that  1  wanted  to 
go  when  I  had  not  even  hinted  such  a  thing  to  mother, 
[t  was  perhaps  wise  that  I  said  nothing  when  I  still 
am  not  sure  whether  mr  not  I  shall  ever  go.  At  times 
when  I  pray  I  almost  promise  God  that  I  shall  go ; 
then  I  quickly  restrain  myself  because  I  know  that  a 
promise  to  God  is  sacred,  and  I  don’t  want  to  promise 
Him  when  my  intentions  may  never  be  realized.  It 
seemed  strange  to  hear  Mr.  Jerstad  call  me  little!  I 
thought  I  was  big.” 

It  was  not  easy  for  her  to  decide  on  the  mission 
field ;  nevertheless  she  could  not  get  rid  of  the  thought. 
In  1910  she  wrote:  “This  year  there  has  been  a 
change  in  me.  Whenever  I  think  of  the  future  now, 
the  mission  field  always  comes  to  me.  I  have  said 
firmly  that  if  I  see  clearly  that  God  wills  me  to  go, 
I  shall  go.  I  have  long  been  in  doubt  because  I  feel 
I  am  too  timid  for  such  a  field  as  Madagascar.  To¬ 
day  I  found  this  verse  in  Paul’s  letter  to  the  Ephesians, 
‘Unto  me,  the  least  of  all  the  saints,  is  this  grace  given 
that  I  should  preach  among  the  Gentiles  the  unsearch¬ 
able  riches  of  Christ.’  This  verse  seemed  to  speak 
directly  to  me,  and  it  has  helped  confirm  my  decision 
to  go.  Every  day  I  find  something  new  which 


14 


strengthens  me  in  my  resolution  to  gO'  out  as  a  mis¬ 
sionary.  Tonight  I  had  a  letter  from  mother  which 
said,  ‘Missionary  Skrefsrud  of  India  is  dead ;  det  tyn- 
dcs  i  reck  kerne  of  aandens  kjeemper /  Oh,  what  an 
effect  this  had  on  me,  I  felt  as  though  God  was  really 
calling  me.” 

May  31,  1910:  “The  Mission  Board  has  accepted 
my  name  as  a  volunteer,  although  nothing  definite  has 
yet  been  done  about  it.  If  I  go>,  I  am  to  go  as  teacher. 
I  begin  to'  dread  it  more  and  more,  for  I  know  I  shall 
never  have  a  home  of  my  own,  nor  any  of  those  I 
love  the  most  to  go  to-,  when  I  am  discouraged.  All 
these  thoughts  make  me  melancholy ;  they  have  taken 
the  sun  out  of  my  life  all  winter,  although  I  have 
fought,  them  hard.  I  try  to  look  at  things  from  God’s 
point  of  view :  I  know  that  in  the  long  run  there  is 
very  little  after  all  that  the  world  can  offer  me,  and 
whether  I  work  for  God  on  this  side  of  the  globe  or 
the  other  makes  little  difference  so  long*  as  God’s  work 
is  helped  onward.  My  parents  and  my  home,  how 
shall  I  ever  be  able  to<  give  you  up?  God,  you  must 
help  me  do  it  gladly.”  Later — “It  is  now  decided  de¬ 
finitely  that  I  go.  Poor  Mother  has  cried  many  a 
night  as  I  have.  But  the  worst  is  over,  the  fight  is 
won ;  there  is  only  the  final  separation  left.” 

After  this  victory  she  seemed  to  grow  happier 
and  to  enter  into  her  work  with  a  new  spirit.  As  a 
teacher  she  had  great  success  in  her  moral  influence 
over  the  communities  into  which  she  came  to  live. 
Her  pupils  kept  up  a  correspondence  with  her  long 
after  she  had  left  their  schools ;  some  of  these  devoted 
letters  arrived  regularly  in  Madagascar  until  after  her 
death,  and  her  work  out  there  was  followed  with 


15 


keen  interest  by  many.  Her  daybook  contains  the  fol¬ 
lowing  extract  on  one  of  the  Sunday  Schools  which 
she  helped  to  organize  :  “I  have  begun  a  Bible  class 
here  because  many  have  begged  me  to  do  so.  I  ac¬ 
cepted  because  I  know  I  need  to  grow  in  fearlessness, 
and  now  is  a  good  opportunity  to  begin.  I  have  prayed 
God  to  put  his  words  into  my  mouth  that  I  may  say 
something  really  worth  while,  for  I  dread  empty  talk. 
I  have  tried  to  lead  my  class  in  prayer,  for  I  know  it 
will  strengthen  me  to  learn  to  pray  aloud  in  public. 
Then  too,  other  young  people  who  hear  me  pray  may 
be  strengthened  thereby.  About  each  one  of  them 
have  I  prayed,  for  I  want  them  all  to'  be  His  as  I  am. 
Fwen  in  this  insignificant  little  corner  of  the  world 
I  want  to  be  God’s  tool.” 

Concerning  this  very  class  she  wrote  while  attend¬ 
ing  the  Duluth  Normal  School,  “Several  of  the  young 
people  who  belonged  to'  my  Bible  class  at  McGrath 
have  expressed  a  wish  to  begin  living  better  lives.  A 
few  of  these  young  people  were  my  one-time  pupils 
in  school.  I  pray  God  that  they  may  finish  what  they 
have  begun.” 

From  the  time  the  call  to  go  to  the  mission  field 
became  clear  to  her,  all  her  plans,  readings,  studying, 
and  preparations  were  made  with  reference  to  the 
needs  of  the  field.  The  summer  of  1911  she  spent  at 
the  University  of  Minnesota  studying  methods  in 
drawing  and  music  because  she  felt  these  were  essen¬ 
tial  to  her  future  work.  The  year  1912  she  entered 
the  Duluth  Normal  and  finished  the  advanced  course 
with  her  usual  record  as  a  brilliant  student.  The 
faculty  permitted  her  to'  carry  outside  her  regular 
course  private  lessons  in  French.  A  society  in  the 


16 


city  willing  to  give  scholarship  to  studious  girls  so 
as  to  enable  them  to  attend  the  University  free  for  a 
year  had  asked  her  if  she  wanted  to'  go.  Her  daybook 
reveals  the  sentiments  on  the  suggestion,  “Want  to 
go- — it  is  what  I  have  wanted  to  do  all  my  life,  yet 
never  dared  to  hope  for.  If  I  went,  I  should  be  en¬ 
tered  as  a  junior.  I  feel  as  though  I  can  never  satis¬ 
fy  my  thirst  for  knowledge.  I  wish  I  could  go  on  so 
as  to  he  still  better  fitted  for  the  work  I  want  to  do. 
God  knows  how  I  want  to>  accept  that  scholarship. 
The  church  which  has  paid  for  my  Normal  School 
education  naturally  wish  me  to  go  to  the  field  as  soon 
as  possible  because  the  need  is  great.  Mother  ven¬ 
tured  a  wish  that  I  might  spend  a  year  with  her  be¬ 
fore  I  leave.  What  shall  I  do  ?  I  am  in  darkness  and 
cannot  see  forward  at  all.  Strange  how  doubts  master 
us.  I  do  not  know  whether  it  is  God’s  will  that  I  go 
or  not.  Perhaps  it  is  I  who  am  forcing  my  will  through. 
I  am  not  at  all  as  I  ought  to  be ;  I  have  too-  much  of  the 
resisting  spirit  in  me.  Unless  God  rejuvenates  me 
and  makes  me  strong  I  shall  amount  to  nothing.  1 
am  too-  much  in  love  with  getting  on,  and  not  in  love 
with  God’s  work  as  I  ought  to  be.  I  must  first  be 
willing  to'  gladly  give  up  the  University,  my  pleasures, 
my  home,  and  just  be  happy  that  I  shall  be  in  God’s 
work . Thy  will,  O  Lord,  and  not  mine.” 

During  her  two  years  of  study  at  the  Normal  one 
finds  but  one  single  unfavorable  comment  on  her 
teachers;  otherwise  she  was  exceedingly  fond  of  her 
teachers  and  her  school  days.  “Many  of  our  teachers 
are  certainly  heading  out  to  be  anti-mission  people. 
Some  of  them  speak  about  mission  and  missionaries 
as  something  nonsensical.  But  the  more  I  hear  them 
speak  like  that,  the  firmer  grows  my  resolve  to  go  to 


17 


the  foreign  field.  And  with  a  special  prayer  for  each 
of  the  teachers  I  love  best  I  go  through  the  day  with 
a  heavy  heart  because  of  their  lack  of  vision.” 

Sunny  spirited  and  refreshingly  original  as  she 
was  with  friends,  she  was  timid  in  the  presence  of 
strangers.  Especially  if  she  were  to  appear  before 
the  public  in  any  way  did  she  suffer  from  this  timidity. 
She  early  began  to  battle  with  herself  to  overcome  this 
weakness.  Before  entering  the  Normal  she  wrote: 
“A  teacher  is  supposed  to-  know  and  dare  everything. 
1  must  be  able  to  teach,  sew,  draw,  play,  lead  meetings 
— how  shall  I  ever  dare  that — visit,  know  all  there  is 
to  know  from  the  Pole  to  which  grade  tobacco  is  the 
most  dangerous.  I  must  always  be  congenial,  willing 
to  help,  and  never  sick.”  Later,  while  at  the  Normal, 
she  resolved,  “to  have  frequent  communions  with  God 
in  order  that  I  may  grow  in  fearlessness  to  speak 

about  Him  more  than  I  have  done  formerly . 

Today  we  had  a  poem  on  ‘Opportunity’;  the  story  was 
about  a  man  who  threw  away  a  golden  opportunity. 
I  felt  the  story  just  fitted  me.  I  have  had  many  op¬ 
portunities  to<  speak  a  little  about  God,  and  yet  I  have 
let  them  pass  because  I  have  felt  utterly  incapable  of 
expressing  my  innermost  convictions.  After  this,  with 
God’s  help,  I  shall  make  better  use  of  my  opportuni¬ 
ties.  Our  Literary  Society  has  chosen  me  for  tlieir 
president-  At  first  I  did  not  want  to  accept  because  I 
dread  leading  meetings  of  any  kind.  Then  suddenly 
it  dawned  on  me  that  maybe  this  was  one  of  my  golden 
opportunities  about  to  be  thrown  away.  So  I  accepted 
in  spite  of  my  being  head  over  heels  in  work  and  in 
spite  of  my  long  French  lessons.  I  must  practise  self- 
control  now  and  see  if  I  cannot  overcome  my  ti¬ 
midity.” 


18 


Her  dislike  for  public  leadership  was  harder  to 
overcome  than  she  realized;  she  wrote  as  follows  of 
such  an  experience  in  Madagascar  while  she  was  liv¬ 
ing  at  the  home  of  a  French  couple  who  were  to-  teach 
her  French :  “I’ve  had  my  first  crying  spell  in  Mada¬ 
gascar  today,  and  it  is  my  same  old  selfish  heart  which 
has  caused  it.  This  great  self  which  is  always  so 
prevalent  in  me,  and  with  which  I  have  had  many, 
many  struggles.  I  have  prayed  God  earnestly  to  fit 
me  for  His  work,  to  make  me  willing  to  accept  any 
opportunity  that  presents  itself.  Today  at  table  Mon¬ 
sieur  Delord  asked  me  to  go  with  him  to  visit  some 
of  his  churches.  I  should  preach,  he  said,  and  he 
would  translate.  I  rebelled  at  the  word  ‘preach’  ;  but 
I  laughed  at  him  as  I  thought  he  was  joking.  When 
I  realized  that  he  was  in  earnest,  I  flatly  refused,  and 
he  reproved  me  for  my  conduct  as  a  missionary.  I 
felt  hurt  because  it  seemed  to  me  that  he  did  not  put 
himself  in  my  place,  and  I  felt  that  he  judged  me  too 
severely.  When  he  next  began  to  tease  me  about  be¬ 
ing  homesick  I  could;  no  longer  keep  the  tears  back. 

. I  am  ashamed  for  losing  my  temper  and  acting 

as  I  did-  I  am  going  with  him  after  all  and  I  have 
promised  to  speak  a  few  words  at  the  close  of  his 
sermon.  May  God  give  me  His  words  to  speak.  This 
victory,  I  think,  may  be  considered  the  beginning  of 
my  missionary  work ;  and  to  think  how  nearly  I  re¬ 
fused  it.” 

She  was  a  great  home  girl.  Her  books  bubble 
over  with  terms  of  endearment,  love,  and  admiration 
for  each  member  of  the  family  in  turn.  While  she 
was  teaching  in  McGrath,  she  walked  many  miles  every 
Friday  evening  to  see  her  sister  who  taught  in  that 


vicinity.  The  memories  of  the  delightful  hours  spent 
on  these  walks  she  never  forgot.  The  tall  spruce  trees 
like  cathedral  spires  against  the  rosy  evening  sky  had 
a  peculiar  fragrance  all  their  own,  the  inhaling  of 
which  was  itself  a  joy.  From  branch  to  branch  in 
these  trees  flitted  the  blue] ays,  the  lumberjacks,  the 
chickadees,  and  the  weird  owls  who  hooted  at  night. 
There  one  saw  the  shy  partridge  shot  at  by  all  passers- 
by,  also  the  noisy  crows,  and  the  bright  scarlet  tan- 
agers.  The  snow  like  a  wet  carpet  covered  the  mossy 
roads,  while  far  down  the  track  puffed  the  heavy 
logging  trains.  Through  the  quiet  forest  resounded 
the  ax  of  the  loggers,  and  the  cry  of  the  hungry  timber 
wolf.  When  the  two  sisters  met  and  the  preliminary 
tears  and  caresses  were  over,  they  had  a  short  prayer 
meeting  before  they  went  home.  Her  mother’s  picture 
she  carried  with  her  wherever  she  went-  She  could 
not  bear  to  be  separated  from  it  even  for  a  day.  “On 
the  little  table  before  me  I  have  put  up  Father’s  and 
Mother’s  picture ;  so  even  though  I  cannot  speak  to 
them,  I  can  get  inspired  by  looking  daily  into  their 
smiling,  contented  faces.  I  feel  melancholy  today  as 
I  have  dreamed  about  home  much  lately.  In  spite  of 
my  resolution  to  have  all  the  fun  I  can,  I  feel  sad  be¬ 
cause  of  Father.  Three  of  his  churches  which  he  had 
organized  and  built  up  through  fifteen  years  of  hard 
pioneer  labor  have  been  taken  by  a  younger  and  more 
brilliant  man.  Father  at  present  has  nothing,  but  God 
who  has  watched  over  us  SO'  far  will  not  forsake  us. 
He  will  still  continue  to  care  for  us.  I  wish  I  knew 
what  is  right — to  help  my  folks  or  go  to  the  foreign 
field.  Mother  has  sacrificed  so  much  for  us ;  she  has 
never  stepped  in  our  way.  If  I  do  not  go,  I  can  help 
her.  Ilowever,  I  know  my  help  is  needed  out  in 


20 


Madagascar  too,  for  there  are  few  women  who  volun¬ 
teer  for  that  field.  I  do-  not  want  to-  slight  my  parents 
who  have  sacrificed  much  for  me,  nor  do  I  want  to 
slight  God.  'God,  help  me  do  right.’  Dear,  am  I 
growing  extravagant?  I  paid  out  four  dollars  to  get 
a  good  picture  of  myself  with  a  strong  frame  for 
mother.  But  I  took  only  one,  and  it  was  for  mother 
who  will  value  it  highly,  I  know.” 

It  is  interesting  to-  notice  the  development  of  her 
prayer  life.  At  first  her  prayers  were  simply  peti¬ 
tions  asking  for  something.  “My,  but  Jesus  is  good 
to  me.  In  high  school  when  there  is  a  lesson  in  Caesar 
which  I  cannot  master,  I  ask  Jesus  not  to  let  Miss 
Wheeler  call  on  me  to.  recite,  and  it  happens  as  I  wish 
every  time.”  .As  a  senior  three  years  later  one  finds 
a  growth:  “I  do  not  believe  that  I  pray  as  I  ought. 
My  prayers  are  dry,  for  I  am  selfish.  When  shall  I 
become  all  that  I  ought  to  be?  I  often  recall  that 
beautiful  verse  from  the  Bible  which  expresses  my 
feeling  entirely,  ‘Likewise  the  spirit  helpeth  our  in¬ 
firmities  ;  for  we  know  not  what  we  should  pray  for 
as  we  ought,  but  the  spirit  itself  maketh  intercessions 
for  us  with  groanings  which  cannot  be  uttered.” 
Finally,  as  a  missionary  six  years  after,  we  find:  “I 
pray  God  to-  reduce  self  to-  nothing  in  my  own  estima¬ 
tion.  May  He  completely  do  away  with  self,  if  I  may 
but  be  a  great  worker  in  His  eyes.” 

She  struggled  against  a  premonition  that  her  life 
would  be  short.  During  her  first  year  of  teaching  we 
find :  “There  are  thousands  of  things  I  want  to  do, 
but  time  is  speeding  away  so  fast  that  I  fear  I  shall 
not  get  half  of  them  done.”  On  her  way  out  to  Mada¬ 
gascar  she  wrote,  while  in  England :  “It  was  not  as 


21 


hard  to  say  gooclby  as  I  thought  it  would  be.  Strange 
how  God  gives  one  strength  for  every  day-  We  all 
seemed  to  have  the  assurance  that  we  should  meet 
again.”  A  few  months  later  from  Manasoa,  Mada¬ 
gascar  she  writes :  “Oct.  1916.  This  morning  I  visited 
the  graveyard  and  saw  the  graves  of  all  those  who 
had  given  their  lives  for  the  work.  I  could  not  but 
kneel  in  front  of  them  and  ask  God  to  give  me  a  long 
time  of  service  if  it  be  His  will — a  term  rich  in  work 
and  blessings,”  In  less  than  two-and-a-half  years 
after  that  prayer,  the  black-water  fever  took  her  life; 
hence  her  prayer  for  a  long  term  of  service  was  not 
answered. 

Extracts  from  her  daybook  written  during  her  trip 
out  to  Madagascar:  “July  24,  1916.  Yesterday  was 
my  first  birthday  abroad.  I  could  not  help  thinking 
and  wondering  if  the  folks  at  home  were  remembering 

me.  How  self-important  we  are . We  are  on  our 

way  to  Africa.  I  am  not  homesick  but  I  am  thinking 
more  and  more  about  home  as  we  leave  it  farther  and 
farther  behind.  Especially  do  I  think  of  mother  wiien 
I  meet  other  missionaries  who  are  going  out — some 
for  two  years,  some  for  three,  some  for  five,  but  we 

for  seven . This  morning  I  was  tackled  by  an 

American  who  told  me  how  very  foolish  and  imprac¬ 
tical  mission  work  was ;  how  utterly  opposed  he  was 
to  it;  how  he  pitied  the  young  girls  who  went  out,  etc. 
He  has  traveled  all  over  the  world  and  has  seen  some¬ 
thing  of  mission  work  especially  in  South  America. 
Of  course  I  stood  by  my  principles ;  but  somehow 
what  I  had  to  say  seemed  empty  and  void  when  a  good 
rattler  spoke  on  the  other  side-  His  talk  only  made 
me  read  my  Bible  with  more  care  and  pray  more 
earnestly  than  ever.” 


22 


September  1916  she  reached  Tulear,  Madagascar; 
from  here  she  was  to  go<  for  a  week  in  a  small  canoe 
up  the  Onilahy  River  to  Manasoa,  where  she  was  to 
have  her  work.  At  night  she,  with  Sister  Petra  and 
Sister  Milla,  (who  had  been  Ragna’s  traveling  com¬ 
panion  all  the  way)  slept  on  the  banks  of  the  river 
under  the  stars,  with  only  natives  to  guard  them.  Such 
a  trip  is  an  impressive  one:  after  leaving  Tulear  the 
traveler  can  push  on  for  weeks  without  seeing  a  single 
white  face.  If  lie  goes  south  he  can  push  on  for 
days  without  seeing  any  living  creature  whatever  aside 
from  his  own  retinue.  Tangled  foliage  dresses  the 
crumbling  cliffs  along  the  river  banks  and  enhances 
the  still  beauty  of  the  wild  scenes ;  spreading  tamarinds 
shade  the  lowlands  which  spread  out  here  and  there 
as  a  strong  contrast  to  the  cliffs,  crags,  and  rocky  hills. 
In  the  river  splash  the  crocodiles,  and  on  the  sandy 
banks  feed  the  timid,  white  egrets.  Hundreds  of  bril¬ 
liant  birds  emerge  like  a  shot  from  the  mabboo  canes 
as  the  canoes  advance,  while  black  crows  with  white 
collars  follow  the  boat  in  search  of  food. 

That  the  natives  are  exceedinQ-lv  likeable  is  the 

o  J 

unanimous  opinion  of  all  travelers  in  Madagascar. 
Ragna’s  daybook  also  verifies  this :  “The  more  I  see 
of  these  people,  the  better  I  like  them.  Last  night, 
while  darkness  was  coming  on,  Sister  Petra  read  to 
them  the  twenty-third  psalm,  after  which  all  prayed 
the  Lord’s  prayer  together  and  sang  several  songs.  I 
did  not  understand  because  it  was  all  in  their  native 
tongue.  Sister  Petra  told  them  a  little  of  our  trip 
(Sister  Milla’s  and  mine)-  They  asked  if  we  had 
come  all  the  way  from  America  just  to  tell  them  about 
Jesus.  Upon  receiving  an  affirmative  reply  they  asked, 
‘Does  it  not  make  you  sad  to  come  so  far  as  this,  and 


23 


yet  have  many  people  refuse  to  her  you?’  That  ques¬ 
tion  was  like  an  encouragement  to  me.” 

The  evening  campfire  is  one  of  the  many  delights 
of  Madagascar  canoeing.  As  soon  as  the  sun  sets, 
the  boats  are  landed  on  the  sandbanks  and  a  blazing 
fire  is  built.  The  flames  leap  high  and  cast  a  ruddy 
glow  on  everything  round  about ;  the  natives,  moving 
about  like  so  many  mysterious  shadows  in  the  dark, 
lie  near  the  fire  in  the  tropical  night,  and  tell  stories 
or  sing*  songs.  From  the  purple  hills  overhead  come 
the  big,  silent  bats  adding  a  sense  of  weirdness  to  all, 
while  the  moon  rises  in  the  East,  making  the  waters  of 
the  river  sparkle  and  shimmer. 

At  Manasoa  at  last :  “I  am  happy  because  I  am 
at  last  in  the  place  1  have  longed  for  all  my  life.  I 
am  so  contented  that  I  feel  as  though  I  am  made  for 
this  place.  I  hope  I  shall  not  prove  a  failure.  Strange 
to  say,  I  was  born  the  year  this  station  was  erected; 
so  we  were  saying  the  other  day  that  I  was  born  for 
the  place.  1  have  just  come  back  from  my  early 
morning  walk  and  feel  very  much  refreshed.  The 
air  was  cool,  and  calm;  now  I  am  ready  for  my  violin 
practice.  How  glad  I  am  that  I  have  my  violin  with 
me  as  it  affords  me  both  pleasure  and  variety-  I  love 

to  let  my  fingers  feel  their  way  along  its  strings . 

The  native  boys  have  an  ‘orchestra’  here.  I  almost 
shake  with  laughter  every  time  we  get  together  with 
the  guitar,  the  flute,  the  mouth-organ,  the  comb,  the 
organ,  and  my  violin.  I  am  glad,  however,  that  they 
are  willing  to  try  to  have  a  band  at  all,  for  the  Mala¬ 
gasy  are  very  musical,  and  they  thoroughly  enjoy  their 
orchestra,  however  primitive  it  may  be.” 

The  hardest  year  of  any  in  the  mission  field  is 
perhaps  the  first  one,  during  which  the  newcomer  is 


24 


busy  learning  a  new  language,  getting  acquainted  with 
and  understanding  the  older  workers  in  the  field  and 
trying  with  all  humility  to  take  graciously  the  lessons 
the  native  and  the  work  shower  on  him.  The  period 
is  hard  moreover  because  of  the  long  inactivity  forced 
on  one' — without  the  medium  of  speech  few  can  do 
much  of  anything.  Ragna  too  felt  this  and  writes  in 
her  daybook  Nov.  5,  1916:  “This  afternoon  for  the 
first  time  since  I  left  home  have  I  had  a  blue  streak. 
It  seemed  to  me  as  if  I  were  making  no  headway.  All 
about  me  people  were  talking,  but  I  could  not  talk  to 
them.  There  was  life  everywhere,  yet  I  could  not 
participate  because  there  was  no  one  to  speak  to,  read 
with,  visit  or  walk  with.  1  felt  like  a  bird  in  a  cage, 
eager  to  get  away ;  not  away  from  people,  but  to 
people.  I  snatched  up  a  tennis  ball  and  ran  outdoors 
to>  play  catch  with  the  boys.  Dear,  dear,  how  en¬ 
thusiastic  they  became-  Since  they  have  no  balls  of 
any  kind,  Sister  Henrietta  and  I  made  them  some  out 
of  rags  this  evening.” 

She  had  not  been  many  days  at  Manasoa  before 
plans  were  made  to  have  her  sent  to  Tananarive  to 
continue  her  studies  in  French.  Because  of  the  war 
she  had  not  been  able  to  study  in  France  according  to 
the  first  plan,  and  it  was  felt  that  if  she  were  to  make  a 
success  as  directress  of  the  Manasoa  Mission  Schools, 
she  must  have  more  training  in  French.  To  travel 
hundreds  of  miles  in  a  palaquin  alone  through  an  un¬ 
known  country,  peopled  by  a  race  with  an  unknown 
tongue,  is  not  an  easy  thing  for  a  young  girl  the  least 
bit  timid.  As  usual  she  found  her  strength  in  prayer : 
“I  must  go  to  the  Interior — and  go  alone.  I  worry  a 
little  because  I  can’t  speak  the  language.  God,  make 
me  calm,”,  .  . ,  , Nov,  15,  “I  am  on  my  way;  it  seems 


25 


strange  to  be  in  charge  of  a  gang  of  men  whose  names 
I  do  not  even  know,  and  whose  language  I  do  not 
speak.  Blit  I  am  not  afraid,  seeing*  that  I  have  a  very 
capable  man  with  me  and  two  of  the  Manasoa  school 
hoys  to'  cook  my  meals  for  me.  Last  night  I  was 
scared  almost  stiff  when  the  men  began  to  file  into 
the  grass  hut  where  I  was  sleeping:  they  rolled  their 
blankets  about  them  and  went  to  sleep,  hut  I  dared 
not  sleep  and  suffered  with  nightmare.  I  have  learned 
now  that  they  slept  there  to1  take  good  care  of  me. 
God  is  very  good  to  me ;  He  is  helping  me  get  ac¬ 
customed  to  a  little  of  everything.  I  must  remember 
too  that  I  am  not  in  my  own  country  but  in  theirs. 
Countries  and  customs  are  not  alike.  I  have  never 
been  eyed  so  in  all  my  life  before  as  now.  I  must  be 
as  interesting  to  the  people  along  the  way  as  they  are 
to  me.” 

November  20,  1916:  “blow  surprisingly  kind  the 
Malagasy  people  are.  I  thought  that  uncivilized  people 
were  fierce;  these  people,  being  semi-civilized,  have 
pleasant,  good-natured  faces.  There  is  a  crowd  about 
me  now  eagerly  watching  me  write.  They  are  out¬ 
side  the  grass  hut  and  I  am  inside.  I  like  them  best 

when  they  are  not  too  friendly . Later:  I  am  now 

in  the  dirtiest,  little  town  on  earth,  I  believe.  In  the 
streets  (what  else  shall  I  call  them)  I  see  a  cosmopo¬ 
litan  crowd  of  pigs,  dogs,  cattle,  hens,  and  people.  This 
room  which  the  government  has  put  up  for  its  travel¬ 
ing  officials,  the  natives  have  used  as  an  icebox  for 
their  milk;  consequently  it  is  filled  with  flies.  We  have 
crossed  rivers  by  the  wholesale  today.  In  some  places 
we  have  been  rowed  across,  in  other  places  the  men 
have  waded  over  carrying  the  filanzana  (palaquin) 
high.  How  strange  everything  turn  out . As  I 


26 


sat  alone  last  night  and  felt  irritable  on  account  of 
the  dirt  around  me,  I  began  to-  think,  ‘What  did  I 
come  to-  Madagascar  for?  Did  I  come  to  help  nice, 
little  children  who  already  are  clean,  or  did  I  come 
to  help  them  realize  what  it  means  to  be  clean,  physi¬ 
cally  and  spiritually?’  As  I  thought  the  question  out, 
I  grew  ashamed  of  myself  and  my  fretting.  I  began 
to  play  with  the  lively  little  children  about  me.  Soon 
I  had  a  crowd,  and  we  did  our  best  to  understand  one 
another.  After  a  time,  one  of  the  men  brought  me  a 
fowl  as  a  gift,  and  in  the  evening  the  young  folks 
gathered  about  me.  One  of  the  young  men  who  could 
read  and  write  a  little  wanted  to-  show  me  what  he 
knew.  He  had  never  gone  to-  school,  he  said,  he  had 
only  learned  from  passers-by.  My !  what  grit.  How 
I  admire  him.  I  wished  sincerely  that  I  could  speak 
to  them  all,  and  that  wish  made  me  remember  what 
was  written  of  Christ,  ‘And  when  He  saw  the  mul¬ 
titude,  He  had  great  compassion  on  them,  for  they 
were  as  sheep  without  a  shepherd.’  ” 

By  December  third  (1916)  she  had  reached  Tana¬ 
narive,  and  was  established  in  a  French  home  to  learn 
the  language  more  thoroughly.  “I  hear  all  the  French 
1  am  able  to-  digest  the  whole  day  long.  Occasionally 
Madame  lifts  the  curtain  of  mystery  by  speaking  Eng¬ 
lish . Dec.  11:  When  shall  I  ever  conquer  my  tem¬ 

per?  This  evening  we  talked  politics,  and  Monsieur 
was  rather  hard  on  America.  I  defended  dear,  old 
U-  S.  A.  with  all  my  might;  but  when  he  hurled 
stinging  remarks  about  it,  I  felt  the  blood  mount  hot 
to  my  cheeks  and  I  could  hardly  speak  for  anger. 
Fortunately  he  saw  my  wrath  and  stopped.  Dear, 
old  U.  S.  A.,  how  I  love  it!  Brother  wrote  me  some 
time  ago,  ‘Doesn’t  it  make  you  proud  to  write  U.  S.  A. 


27 


at  the  bottom  of  your  letter?’  Proud!  well,  I  have 
never  known  that  I  loved  my  country  SO'  dearly  as  I 
do.  I  am  happy  I  am  one  of  her  children.  I  am 
registered  as  a  U.  S.  A.  citizen  here  in  Madagascar, 
and  I  feel  safe  as  long  as  Uncle  Sam  is  back  of  me-” 
(1917) — Feb.  12:  “Lincoln’s  Birthday — I  must  put 
up  my  little  flag;  ‘Oh,  the  flag  that’s  brave  and  true, 
Is  the  flag  red,  white  and  blue.  It’s  the  flag  for  me 
and  you.  Hurrah  !’  ” 

“December  17 :  Sunday  today:  I  don’t  know  what 
is  the  matter  with  me  at  times.  Although  I  want  the 
love  mamma,  my  brothers  and  sisters  give  me,  I  want 
more  love  than  that.  1  wonder  if  it  is  not  natural  for 
women  to  want  to  be  loved.  If  it  isn’t,  I  am  not 
natural.  I  am  afraid  that  this  longing  for  a  home  of 
my  own  and  for  special  love  is  a  temptation,  and  I 
reprove  myself  for  my  weakness.  I  fight  that  long¬ 
ing  for  love  as  soon  as  I  perceive  it  begins  to  breed ; 
but  I  am  afraid  that  by  checking  it,  I  shall  make  my¬ 
self  hard  or  unsympathetic  with  others.  Although  I 
know  that  God  has  created  us  with  natures  craving 
the  fellowship  of  love ;  still  I  feel  it  is  the  place  of 
some  of  us  to  remain  alone.  I  wonder  if  it  is  not  in 
that  capacity  some  of  us  can  do  the  most  for  Him,  It 
is  hard  b>  give  up ;  but  if  it  were  not  hard,  it  would 
not  be  worth  doing.  Many  others  have  dedicated 
their  lives  to  God  before  in  this  way  ;  so  why  should 
not  I?  Still,  at  times  love  and  home  sound  sweet  to 
me;  but  a  true  sacrifice  is  giving  up  what  one  loves 
the  most:  and  it  was  a  true  sacrifice  I  intended  to 
make  when  I  planned  on  becoming  a  missionary-  Why 
should  I  feel  concerned?  God  will  lead  me  right  as 
He  has  done  many  times  before.  I  am  not  worrying 
any  more  now,  for  God  will  lead  me  through . 


28 


Dec.  18:  I  am  actually  ashamed  of  myself  and  my 
last  night’s  dreaming.  Today  I  am  free  and  happy 
again,  and  I  don’t  need  the  comfort  of  anyone  else.” 

After  two  hard  attacks  of  fever,  she  found  what 
most  malarial  patients  find,  that  one  is  abnormally 
sensitive :  “blow  weak  I  am,  and  cross  with  myself. 
Yesterday  I  felt  hurt  about  criticisms  made  on  my 
French;  it  was  not  the  criticism  itself  which  hurt,  but 
the  way  it  was  said.  And  last  Sunday.  I  was  actually 
in  tears  right  in  church;  I  cannot  explain  why.  Last 
evening  as  I  went  out  for  a  walk  by  myself,  I  thought 
about  the  matter  seriously.  I  came  to  the  conclusion 
that  it  is  not  Christian  to  yield  to  all  these  petty  mat¬ 
ters  which  chagrin  us.  I  must  fight  that  over-sensi¬ 
tiveness  of  mine;  I  must  think  less  of  myself  and  re¬ 
member  that  all  trials  are  for  my  good.  How  can  a 
Christian  grow  when  he  has  no  battles,  to  fight?  ‘A 
battle  fought  and  won’  is  what  I  ought  to  be  able  to 
say  at  the  end  of  each  day.  Moreover  I  must  not  for¬ 
get  That  the  man  worth  while  is  the  man  who  can 
smile  when  everything  goes  dead  wrong-’  ”  The  sub¬ 
sequent  two  years  of  her  short  life  in  Madagascar,  she 
certainly  lived  up  to  her  resolutions  to  smile  no  mat¬ 
ter  what  her  trials  were.  She  remained  strangely  pa¬ 
tient  under  the  most  trying  conditions  at  times,  and 
seemed  to-  gain  in  longsufifering  and  sympathy  every 
day. 

After  nine  months  in  the  capital,  she  passed  her  ex¬ 
aminations  in  French,  oral  and  written,  satisfactorily. 
On  her  way  back  to  Manasoa  she  visited  various  Eu¬ 
ropean  homes  and  with  her  sweet,  unassuming  ways 
made  fast  friends.  In  August  1917  she  arrived  at 
Manasoa  with  her  French  diploma,  all  eagerness  to  be- 


29 

gin  her  work  in  the  Mission  School — a  work  for  which 
she  had  been  looking  forward  to  for  years. 

Her  workday  at  Manasoa  was  not  a  long  one ;  only 
eighteen  months  in  all,  and  during  this  period  she 
was  ill  most  of  the  time  from  malaria  or  dysentery. 
Her  love  for  the  work  and  her  desire  to  be  of  ser¬ 
vice  far  exceeded  her  physical  strength.  She  tried  to 
introduce  better  methods  into'  the  school,  but  met  with 
sullen  opposition  from  the  native  teachers  who  re¬ 
sented  a  change ;  she  spent  much  time  giving  various 
boys  music  lessons  and  was  disappointed  to  find  that 
they  would  not  practise ;  in  short,  she  found,  what  most 
missionaries  find,  that  the  native  is  an  immature  crea¬ 
ture  with  countless  perversities  which  wear  one’s  pa¬ 
tience  threadbare.  Yet  she  was  always  hopeful,  con¬ 
fident  that  the  good  would  eventually  win  out.  The 
fever  slowly  sapped  her  strength,  and  with  her  strength 
her  courage.  Determined  not  to  be  conquered  bv 
despondency  she  struggled  bravely  on,  and  she  suc¬ 
ceeded  so  well  in  concealing  her  feelings  that  only  her 
daybook  after  her  death  revealed  the  anguish  she  at 
times  had  suffered  over  her  problems.  She  did  not 
seem  to  realize  that  her  despondency  was  due  to  ill 
health  ;  she  labored  under  the  delusion  that  she  had 
failed  to  master  herself-  She  failed  too,  to  see  that 
her  difficulties  were  those  of  success,  and  it  never 
came  to  her  that  her  students  almost  idolized  her. 

Three  months  before  she  died:  “My  what  loving 
sympathetic  letters  I  get  from  home-  How  lovely  to 
be  a  member  of  a  large  family.  At  times  I  almost 
wish  that  I  had  no  family,  no  friends — then  there 
would  be  no  pain  of  seperation.  It  would  not  be  hard 
to  leave  friends  perhaps,  but  it  would  be  hard  to  live. 
Live  without  love — no  that  is  impossible;  that  isn’t 


30 


life.  Oh,  I  hope  this  new  year  will  be  a  happy  one. 
If  only  we  can  keep  our  spirits  up,  the  rest  will  take 
care  of  itself.  It  is  our  moodiness  which  makes  cer¬ 
tain  days  dark  and  others  happy.  I  am  almost  afraid 
to  let  myself  be  wholly  glad  for  fear  there  will  be  a 
reaction  later  on.  I  thought  I  had  overcome  getting 
discouraged,  but  no,  I  still  get  downhearted  very  easily. 
This  is  a  shame,  a  big  shame;  I  must  try  not  to  let  it 

get  a  hold  on  me . ” 

Seven  days  before  she  died,  her  daybook  again  told 
of  her  struggles  with  her  despondency :  “I  remember 
when  I  first  came  to  Madagascar  how  happy  I  was  in 
my  studies,  in  my  work,  in  the  people.  Now  that  hap¬ 
piness  has  left  me  and  I  am  unhappy.  I  have  been 
trying  to  find  the  reason  for  it,  and  I  believe  it  is 
all  due  to  cowardice,  although  there  may  be  many 
more  factors  at  work  than  I  know.  First  of  all  I  miss 

home  dreadfully;  it  never  seems  like  home  here- . 

Perhaps  it  is  because  I  am  used  to  having  mother  as 

a  center . now  there  is  no  one  I  love  as  I  do  her' 

and  I  feel  lost.  Secondly,  both  at  home  and  here  I 
have  been  accustomed  to1  others  taking  the  responsi¬ 
bility.  At  home  it  was  mother  ;  here  Dr.  Dyrnes  has 
taken  the  brunt  of  it  all.  Now  that  he  is  preparing'  to 
leave,  and  more  and  more  is  left  in  my  hands,  1  vir¬ 
tually  shrink  from  my  task.  To  supervise  under  his 
direction  is  all  right,  but  to  take  all  myself  of  good  and 
bad,  that  is  different.  This  shrinking  must  be  cow¬ 
ardice.  I  can  get  no  comfort  from  the  others  on  the 
place,  for  they  are  all  as  inexperienced  as  myself.  How 
I  should  love  to  be  near  my  strong  brother  and  hear 
him  say,  ‘Er  det  noget  at  bry  sig  om  da  ?’  Why  must 
there  be  such  love  and  interdependence  in  families 
when  ties  are  so  hard  to  break  and  the  loss  is  felt  so 


31 


keenly.  There — I  have  had  my  dinner,  and  1  have  had 
my  say,  and  now  I  feel  better.  I  must  fight  hard  not 
to  let  the  Tine  streak’  master  me.” 

On  the  29th  of  March  she  was  prostrated  with 
blackwater  fever,  and  lived  only  two  days  after  that 
day.  Unconscious  though  she  was  most  of  the  time, 
her  mind  was  ever  praying- — the  habit  of  a  lifetime 
reasserting  itself  at  the  close  of  life  with  renewed 
persistency.  She  lay  pleading  over  and  over  with 
God  half  unconsciously — “Please  let  me  live  a  little 
longer,  please  let  me  live  a  little  longer-”  Perhaps 
she  felt  that  her  work  had  barely  begun  and  she 
wished  to  finish  it  before  leaving  it.  As  she  grew 
weaker  and  weaker  and  the  end  drew  near,  she  threw 
her  arm  about  her  sister’s  neck  and  whispered,  “Aa, 
Astrid,  lad  mig  dd  (oh,  Astrid,  let  me  die).”  She 
had  finally  given  up  and  was  ready  to  go  when  her 
Master  called  her.  On  the  midnight  of  the  last  day 
in  March  she  drew  her  last  breath,  and  the  work  foi 
which  she  had  been  preparing,  so  to  speak,  all  her  life 
was  again  without  a  leader.  In  her  room  were  found 
the  many  books  she  had  bought  with  her  own  money 
for  the  good  of  the  school;  the  music  she  herself  had 
written  for  the  ocarinas  in  the  “orchestra”  (she  had 
several  musical  rehearsals  daily)  ;  notebooks  she  had 
prepared  on  the  wild  birds  of  the  place;  classics  she 
had  translated  into  French  for  the  benefit  of  the  stu¬ 
dents ;  scores  of  pictures  or  patterns  she  had  collected 
or  traced  or  invented  for  the  teaching  of  new  ideas 
in  sewing  to  the  girls ;  and  on  her  table  a  half-finished 
letter  to  her  mother.  She  had  lived  her  last,  and  the 
following  day  she  was  carried  by  her  sorrowing  stu¬ 
dents  out  to  the  graveyard  where  two-  years  previously 


32 


she  had  knelt  to  ask  God  to  give -her  a  long  term  of 
service.  In  truth  His  ways  are  mysterious  and  past 
finding  out. 


The  resting  place  of  Ragna  Dahle, 
Manasoa,  Madagascar. 


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